declaration of independence, part II

Two days ago I gained my independence for the second time in my life. It was reminiscent of my 18-year-old foray into college life, and yet far more people seemed convinced that I would survive as a newly independent 18-year-old, than as a 24-year-old who is much more well-versed in life’s little intricacies. Of course, I was certainly greeted with a number of new challenges that dorm life doesn’t come close to matching, starting with trying to communicate with a landlord in a language that I have only studied for 8 months. This, only to be compounded by the fact that the landlord has never been a landlord before, is very nervous about all of her belongings spontaneously breaking, and has never really interacted with an American before. The day I moved in ended with her seeming very frazzled, and me wondering if I had made the right choice in apartments. That question arose over and over this weekend.

I was fortunate to have the assistance of four other volunteers, and James’ landlord, Varton, who allowed me to use his jeep—his son drove and he also helped moved stuff. I had no idea how much stuff I had actually accumulated in this country until I packed it all up. It was almost embarrassing but I am assured by my friends it is normal… Miraculously, everything fit in the back of the jeep (the back seat was out) and we only had to make one trip across town. Approximately 15 yards from my host family’s house, the jeep broke down. After lots of fiddling it was determined that it was out of gas. Someone found some gas and we were on our way again, the volunteers on foot and Varton and his son in the jeep.

My landlord, Manik, met us at the apartment and promptly began freaking out about her stuff and her list of things she had counted. Landlords are supposed to write down what they have provided in the house for later reference in case things break, etc., etc. Well, Manik wrote a book—literally—she bought a school copy book and wrote pages and pages of everything she owns. She even counted her Armenian books, which are safely in a cabinet, and I had already assured her that I wouldn’t touch them, let alone read them. She then asked if I would like to check it. Reading Armenian handwriting is near impossible for me, and I had no concern about being cheated by her, so I told her that I trusted her and I would sign the list and she could hang on to it for later. That’s where the trouble started. She got upset and I started to say “its okay, I know what I have and I know what is yours and if I break anything, I will replace it.” I managed to get to “I know what I have” when she interrupted me and starting freaking about this being about her things. Thankfully Cat was there with her super Armenian skills to translate because frustration does not aid my language abilities. We finally got things straightened out and Manik out the door after about an hour, at which point I started wondering if I dare touch anything in the apartment for fear of the aftermath.

It didn’t take me long to get over that and I was soon scrubbing every corner of the place with bleach. One word…disgusting. Manik said she would clean before I moved in, but if that happened I have no idea what it was that she cleaned. Not only were shelves and cabinets carpeted in dust and dirt, but all the dishes needed washed, floors cleaned, rugs shook, and the kitchen and bathroom needed complete top to bottom scrubbings. I spent an hour on my hands and knees in the bathroom with a sponge and a scrub brush, and after the fourth time through, gave up…at least the sponge had stopped coming up black. I managed to get it clean enough that I felt comfortable leaving my toothbrush in there and hanging up my towel. Of course, in addition to all the dirt, I was gifted with all of the belongings that the family decided they didn’t need when they left for Russia—old toothbrushes, used razor blades, clothing tags, empty candy boxes displayed on shelves, 5-year-old opened bottles of vodka, old slippers, nasty stuffed animals, you name it. I moved through the house throwing all of this randomness into boxes, mentally preparing myself to explain WHY I didn’t want these things as I had already done with a lot of other ridiculousness that was more prominently displayed on move-in day.

Manik had made a big deal on more than one occasion of walking through the apartment and asking do you need this? How about this? You only need this little pot right? Finally I just started to tell her to leave everything and made a mental note to go through it later. Did I ever get my wish. Of course, my favorite, is when she would pull something out of a cabinet and say “do you need this? Because if not, I am going to just leave it right here,” and then put it back where it came from. As it turned out I ended with almost everything except for closet space, which was a point of contention.

I have a three room apartment (two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and two balcomies, one enclosed) and only one closet. Actually, wardrobe is a better term for the free-standing piece of furniture with three doors. Two doors open into a typical closet space with a shelf at the top and a bar across the width, and of course very few hangers, the other door opened to a series of shelves. First, Manik wanted to lock the closet part and leave the shelves for me. When I protested, she said she would put her stuff in the shelf side, lock it and give the other side to me. This wasn’t much better but I could see that if I didn’t agree to this, she would lock an entire room so I compromised. The next time I visited, she showed me the closet, first the locked side and then the other. On the floor of the other side was stacked two suitcases and a large cardboard box, which were taking up more than half of the available space. She points to the items and says “I am just going to leave these here. Don’t disturb then, okay?” I became so frustrated I couldn’t speak and finally yelled to James to help translate. He did, and the suitcases were moved to a cupboard in the living room—one of the few she had emptied in there, and as it turned out, the only one tall enough to accommodate my books and manuals. I eventually moved them under a bed and Manik hasn’t said anything so I am going to assume I am safe.

Of course, the dirt and the landlord’s belongings were only the beginnings of my struggles. The Thursday before I moved I visited the apartment to find James’ landlord and Renee’s landlord installing my peephole, new locks and light outside my door. They also turned on the water to the toilet and we checked the phone, which wasn’t working. I was promised Friday. On Saturday, when I moved in it still wasn’t working, I was told Monday. On Monday morning, when my landlord arrived because my toilet was leaking, it still wasn’t working. Finally, Monday evening it was turned on, and the water to my toilet was turned off to take care of the large puddle that had formed on my bathroom floor. As it turned out, the toilet bowl was cracked, quite visibly, but because the light had stopped working in the bathroom we couldn’t see it. I later come to find out that the landlord knew this, and didn’t say anything when the water was turned on, thus creating a constant trickle of water over the back of the toilet bowl and eventually leaking onto the floor. Now that the water is off, I am flushing with a bucket until I get my new (used) toilet installed on Saturday. I think there is a market here. Additionally, I am personally paying for the workers to close off the top part of the wall between the water closet and the room with the sink and the tub. As it turns out, not being able to flush your toilet paper creates quite the aroma in any room it has access to. Not so pleasant when you are brushing your teeth.

I will also be receiving my peace corps gas stove on Saturday. I was told that the electric stove and oven worked (they don’t) and that there was also a gas stove that I could use if I had any problems. The day I moved in, I sent James and his landlord to fill up the gas canister for the gas stove, only to find out when they returned that the gas stove also didn’t work. So, we took a trip to the bus stop/shops and bought a small single burner stove on top of a propane type canister—sort of a camping stove on steroids. We also bought some food and proceeded to make some lunch. The next day, while making dinner, the new stove stopped working. Well, it actually turned into somewhat of a flame thrower. I took it back to the store and exchanged it for a new one (fortunately we bought it from my language tutor’s mother, so there were no questions asked) and so far that one is doing okay, although I am not holding my breath. In the mean time I borrowed a new regulator from James and we hooked up the landlord’s gas stove again, but one of the burners leaks gas. Sigh.

I also bought some new light bulbs to replace the one that promptly burned out the day after I moved in and to install in the fixture in the second bedroom where there was no bulb. By fixture, I mean bare socket hanging from a wire in the middle of the room. The light works now, but only if you stand in the doorway and hold the switch halfway between on and off. Convenient, no? In the same trip I purchased a kilo of sugar, using the word for sugar I had learned in PST. I am pretty sure that I will now never forget that the word we learned for sugar in PST actually means sugar CUBE. Not quite sure what I am going to do with a kilo of sugar cubes….guess I will be drinking a lot of tea. Of course, it would be helpful if my kitchen sink were working properly. Right now I have a trickle that I can’t turn off or on any higher. Maybe later.

On the bright side, Manik seems to be coming around quite nicely and has relaxed considerably from our first few meetings. Now that I have unpacked she is beginning to realize that I actually do need all of the space I asked for things like books and clothes and desk space. I think she is also realizing that many things in this apartment are being upgraded on my bill on account of me being here. I am additionally fortunate to have Varton as my go-to man if anything goes wrong. He has consistently been on top of making sure everything works as it should. Renee’s landlord is the one who does the electrical and plumbing related things and he seems happy to help as well.

As I write this, my phone has once again stopped working, but all in all I think I have made a good choice in my apartment search. I managed to get some posters and pictures up the other day and it is really starting to feel like home. And, I am pretty sure that no amount of inconveniences can trump the feeling of freedom I have now that I cooking my own meals, making my own decisions, and not feeling guilty whenever I decided to do something that didn’t involve staying at home with my family watching Russian television.